People living upstairs
With the power of means
To let you live or die
De facto or de jure
Have their sovereign parlance
A sign of class consciousness
That goes by saying thus:
“No offense. It’s just personal.
For work is work, and that’s that,”
As if it were a recitation
Of indemnifying themselves
From injuring the other’s soul
And absolving them of the offense
They have committed willingly.
People living downstairs
With the need for means
To live and not die
Physically and mentally
Have their sovereign credos
A sign of universal humanness
That bellows from within thus:
“No offense? It’s personal,
For I am not mechanical
Without sense and reason.
What is it, then, addressing me?
Is it nothing but a talking head?”
Such is an echo from the valley
Of the injured soul, weeping inside
Forcing to remind the values of stoicism
That works not for everyone’s soul.
Masters of slaves, transcendent of time
Slaves of masters, regardless of race
In different costumes, in changing scenery
Have kept their footings in their places
According to lots assigned by Wheel of Fortune;
Some say luck ensues from efforts and geniuses,
And many believe it so as though to numb the pains
From the ills of society, the reality at face value.
Nevertheless, work is personal in the guise
Of the professional that which even Adam Smith
The father of the Wealth of Nations affirmed
In the selfish human ego distilled in work;
“Nothing is personal” is, therefore, a fallacy
A res ipsa loquitur of illogical defense
Of offense on the hangers-on by the upper hands
Although they may refuse to agree with me
In the security of their infallible power to decide
The livelihood of those in need of their mercy.